


Threat of a Waning Moon

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Costume Kink, Identity Porn, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Penetrative Knifeplay, Sexual Repression, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorschach cuts Dan free (and needs to be cut free).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threat of a Waning Moon

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) fic – prompt is 'blades', but there's bonus denial, bondage, and identity kink in there too.

"Any luck?" Nite Owl murmurs, and Rorschach fumbles his bonds again. The rope is thick and abrasive and the knots are pulled tight; he can't get his fingers in to loosen things up. Nite Owl's breath blooms against Rorschach's mask, and he can feel the warmth of it diffusing through the latex and settling on his cheek. It is why he feels flushed, heat creeping into his face. Merely proximity, exchange of body heat—too much of it in such a small space.

It's not because he is leaning against his partner, body stretched out long so that he can reach where his hands are tied, suspended above his head.

"This would be easier," he says. He's whispering, because there's no need to speak any louder, not standing this close. "Would be easier if you weren't so tall."

He feels Nite Owl's chest rise against him as he inhales, and then the rumbling vibrations of a chuckle, dense and rolling against his body. "Sorry to be an inconvenience."

Yes, because his height is the inconvenience, not the way he got himself trussed up like so much meat. Nite Owl doesn't explain, and Rorschach knows better than to ask. His partner's predilections are none of his business. He just wishes they didn't intersect with their work like this.

"It would be easier if the ropes were cuffs. At least then you could—hmm."

Rorschach grunts, gives the knot another futile tug. Nite Owl could at least have the grace to be sheepish, instead of his usual affable self. It's exasperating. "Problem?"

"Well, obviously." Nite Owl shifts against him. He's trembling lightly, and Rorschach wonders how long he's been strung up like this. He must be aching, if not numb. "But I have an idea. My throwing crescent."

"Ehn." Rorschach takes a few steps back, gaining space for a moment. He's rubbing his palms together, slowly raking leather against leather. He stops. When he can't seem to keep his hands still, he folds his arms instead.

Nite Owl jerks his head down, gestures with his chin. "Tug it upward, it'll slide free," he says.

Rorschach quietly despairs as his thoughts take on a prurient hue. He makes a note to track down Twilight Lady and have a quiet word in her ear, warn her off playing this kind of game with them.

His eyes are drawn to the crescent moon on Nite Owl's belt. It's representative of the hero, and Rorschach takes a moment to appreciate the symbolism: Nite Owl, cutting Daniel's bonds and freeing him of his deviant—

Nite Owl shifts from foot to foot, shoulders straining. "Uh, Rorschach?"

Past time they were out of here. Rorschach gives himself a mental shake, steps forward to inspect where the blade hooks onto the belt. The bronze has a luster that glows in the dim room, and the sharpened edge catches the half-light, ignites it.

He braces his fingertips on Nite Owl's waist, rests his thumbs on the flat of the blade and pushes it upward.

Nite Owl is holding his breath, stomach pulled in.

The crescent comes free with a click, technical and precise. The curved edge snags Nite Owl's costume as Rorschach slides it away, shearing a few inches of fabric across his lower belly. The spandex pulls apart, exposing an ellipse of skin.

Trammel of Archimedes, Rorschach thinks, idly. A bead of blood wells up and he wipes at it with his thumb. His hands are shaking, likely strain from trying to undo the knots earlier. Under Nite Owl's skin, he watches Daniel's stomach muscles tighten. He's still holding his breath, or his breathing is very shallow.

"Careful," Nite Owl says, and licks his lips. "It's sharp." He's nonchalant, as though he's warning Rorschach that his coffee is hot. The tone is absurd, here, in this situation.

Unconvincing.

Rorschach turns the blade over between his fingers. It would fit into his palm, curve against the heel of his hand. It would cut through glove leather, if he made a fist around it. Cut through it like butter. He grips the crescent between forefinger and thumb, and the rest of his fingers settle along it intuitively. Muscle-memory; it's not unlike holding a straight-razor.

On the balls of his feet, he reaches up to hook his free hand around the thick knot of rope. He feels Nite Owl breathe out and in again, and then hollow his body, trying to arch away as much as his bonds will allow. Rorschach appreciates the courtesy, belated as it is.

The crescent rasps over the rope, and he watches twists of filament fray and part, fiber sheared away a piece at a time. The honed edge glints as he moves it back and forth, a metallic talon, curved and graceful and vicious. Proven as a tool for succor, though, as much as for combat.

He's never seen Nite Owl use it to hurt anybody.

A little more pressure and the rope is almost cut through. Any further and he risks slicing through Nite Owl's gauntlets and into the soft skin beneath—into Daniel's wrists, cold metal sliding into him, cleaving his flesh as easily as it did his costume.

He doesn't care for that thought, how easily it presented itself. He lowers his arms; there are a bare few twists of rope left, Nite Owl can pull them away himself.

But he doesn't. His hands flex, clasp around themselves, still caught up.

"Nite Owl," Rorschach prompts, when he makes no further move to free himself.

Nite Owl swallows, throat working hard, and avoids looking at him. He makes a noise that probably began life a word, then takes another shaky breath that shifts his body, minute adjustments of pressure and weight.

Rorschach realizes a number of things in gunshot succession: He can feel Daniel's pulse, racing. He can see it, shuddering at the base of his throat. He has been holding the crescent flat against Daniel's hip.

He can feel his own blood rush, hot and nauseating.

He brings the crescent up, slow and wary, intending to cut away the last of the rope despite his unsteady hands. This close, he can see Daniel's eyes beneath the dark glass of his goggles, the flicker of movement as he tracks the path of the blade.

He knows Daniel is a little afraid of him; always has been. Nite Owl is too, but in a different way. It doesn't bother him—Rorschach is fearsome and thus should be feared, even among fellow vigilantes. Fear is a versatile language, with all its subtle dialects.

He knows fear can look like slack, parted lips. It can feel like quick breaths, drawn in sharply.

It does not surprise him that Daniel would be afraid now, not when he rests the keen edge in the hollow of his throat, lightly enough that his heartbeat makes it quiver. It's a test, maybe, though for what—and for whom—he does not know. He does know that it can't be his hand that shakes, because why would he be the one afraid here?

The blade moves, whispers across Daniel's cheek, traces the line of the cowl where it rests against his skin. With the tip of the crescent, he separates the armor from the man beneath. Daniel's breathing through his nose, now. Lips still parted just barely. Eyes are closed, under glass. He is very still.

He wonders what kind of fear Daniel is feeling, that it doesn't preclude such trust.

"God, Rorschach," Daniel breathes. Quiet, barely moving his mouth. The crescent moves under Rorschach's fingers, shifts with the twitch of tiny muscles.

It's not fear in his voice.

Just like that, there is no more pretense for this game.

Rorschach shakes and he slackens his grip, lets the blade fall before it can lacerate. It sings when it hits the floor, humming like a tuning fork before settling into silence. Daniel pulls his hands free, rope unwinding from his wrists in thick spirals. His goggles gleam, bronze arcing against his face.

"Sorry," Rorschach manages to choke out. He bends to pick up the throwing crescent. Hands it over, or tries to. Daniel catches his wrist before he can withdraw and just holds it for a moment, blade held between his fingers like it's a playing card, thumb pressed over Rorschach's trip-hammer pulse.

"It's okay," Daniel says, sincere as he always is, as though it is the dropped weapon that Rorschach is apologizing for. "Thank you." He smooths his thumb over the edge of his crescent as he clips it to his belt, and when he glances up at Rorschach, his mouth curls into a smile as sharp and deadly as any razor.


End file.
